


Crown of Fire, Throne of Blood

by Mast3rofd3ath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Arya Stark, BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, BAMF Jon Snow, BAMF Ned Stark, BAMF Sansa Stark, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Dragons, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Greenseers & Greensight (A Song of Ice and Fire), High Valyrian (A Song of Ice and Fire), Jon Snow Has a Different Name, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, M/M, Ned Stark Lives, Old Gods, Valyria (A Song of Ice and Fire), Warg Bran Stark, Warg Jon Snow, Wargs & Warging (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 01:34:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30098283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mast3rofd3ath/pseuds/Mast3rofd3ath
Summary: The Gods decide to take a more active role in their disciples lives, and for the first time in over three centuries the Valyrian Gods awaken to protect the last Targaryen's. The result? Everything changes.Or, I'm bitter about seasons 6-8 and want to re-do it.
Relationships: Alys Karstark/Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 82





	1. Winter is coming

**Author's Note:**

> I have no self control and wanted to share this story with you all!! Hope you enjoy.

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I’ve tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice_.

***

_The war all but ground to a halt in the blink of an eye once Prince Rhaegar fell on the Trident. Between one moment and the next the Targaryen Dynasty was destroyed and Usurped by Robert Baratheon, and a new era would soon be ushered in for the Seven Kingdoms and their people._

_For close to twenty years, peace would reign throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Lands were healed from the destruction wrought by the Rebellion, family numbers boosted thanks to an influx of babes borne to those married for alliances at the beginning of the war, and time, as it was wont to do, went on._

_The Seven Kingdoms recovered after the Rebellion, and the new Baratheon Dynasty began to flourish. The new King, Robert I Baratheon, wed his wife, Cersei I Lannister, and an heir was born nine moons later. Prince Joffrey, heir to the Iron Throne. Many were relieved; King Robert was not mad, nor was Queen Cersei. But many knew that one did not have to be mad to be a terrible King, as time would undoubtedly tell._

_But unbeknownst to many, ancient powers were waking. An age of wonder and terror was almost upon Westeros. An age of heroes and magic...and it all begun with a prophesy spoken over three hundred years ago..._

_***_

_THE HIDDEN PRINCE_

_Winterfell, 298 AC_

There were very few times Jon Snow was glad to be the bastard son of a Lord, and important feasts were one of them. The annual harvest feast had all but leaped upon the North, and the High Lords of the North had converged on the ancient castle of Winterfell, seat of House Stark, for the festival. While Jon’s older half-brother Robb was being primped and preened to be presentable as Heir to the North, Jon was hunting with a retinue of guards in the Wolfswood.

The Wolfswood was a peaceful, hushed place. Thousands and thousands years old, Jon’s Stark ancestors had hunted in the very same woods once; now, he crept through the underbrush, boots silent on the foliage, bow in hand, and knocked an arrow as his long dead kin watched over his shoulder.

The arrow flew straight and true into the eye of a large, healthy buck. The beast screamed and thrashed and collapsed to the ground. Jory Cassel, Captain of Winterfell's household guard, clapped Jon on the shoulder with an impressed grin.

“Good shot, Jon,” the man said appreciatively, “That and the two boars we got should feed us all,”

Jon nodded, expression as solemn as always. He was a man grown, seventeen, yet exuded an air of a man far older. His Stark grey eyes were dark and grave; his lord father, Eddard, usually called him brooding. Lord Stark was right. Jon, as a bastard, had little to be cheerful about.

Jon had it better than most bastards, he knew that. His father housed him, clothed him, and fed him, but he would never truly belong in Winterfell. He had no claim to titles or lands and it was unlikely that Lord Stark would ever grant him any for fear of insulting his Lady wife, Catelyn Tully, any more than he already had by bringing home his bastard son. But that never bothered Jon; all he wanted was to be accepted, to be named Stark, even if no lands or titles came from it.

Lady Stark's greatest fear was Jon usurping his brother Robb’s place as Heir to Winterfell and Wardenship of the North. Jon would never do such a thing, but any assurances fell on deaf ears. Lady Stark’s southern Gods named bastards lusting, grasping fiends that would kill anyone and everything in their way to power. In the North, it was different. In the North, bastards were tolerated and mostly accepted. The Old Gods cared not; they had no rules and punishments for sins, unless a person cut down or burned one of the sacred weirwood trees. But that had not happened for thousands of years in the North.

Northerners were a different breed all together from those in the south. Northmen and women were the last descendants of the First Men and took great pride in their customs and traditions. The Northerners were the last Kingdom left in Westeros who kept to the Old, nameless and faceless Gods of the wood, river, and stone. Southerners called Northerners pagans and heretics; unwashed barbarians.

In Jon’s humble opinion, it was the Southerners that were strange to him. They held no festivals to celebrate a good harvest season, or summer snows and bonfire nights. Their women did not learn to wield blades and ride horses astride; they learned to sew and dance and sing and say ‘yes’ to everything asked of them. It seemed strange to Jon, who was only ever used to be surrounded by strong, fierce women that would sooner gut a man than demurely let him grope her.

Lady Catelyn was a daughter of House Tully, Jon knew. House Tully had been Lords paramount of the Riverlands for three centuries thanks to Aegon the Dragon ridding the Riverlands of Harren the Black and granting the Tully's their lands and titles during his Conquest of Westeros. Lady Catelyn was a southern woman, and held to the Seven Who Are One. She had tried to demand a Sept built in Winterfell, but Lord Stark had refused. There had never been a Sept built in the North, and Lady Catelyn wouldn’t be the exception. Jon’s younger sisters, Sansa and Arya, had been tutored by a Septa before the latter had gone complaining to her father about Septa Mordane badmouthing the North and their ‘barbaric, godless practises.’

Jon remembered the day the Septa was all but thrown from Winterfell, shamed and red-faced. Lady Catelyn had been wroth, especially when Lord Stark had hired a governess – a true northern woman who wore breeches and a sword strapped to her hip, but her Southern ways decreed that her Lords word was law.

Jon helped the men field dress the buck, hands slick and wet with warm blood, and heaved it into the wagon holding two dressed boars, then washed off his hands with a skin of fresh water and mounted his horse, a stocky, shaggy northern horse bred to survive the harsh, Northern winters.

As he rode, Jon allowed his mind to once again wander. He had been doing a lot of thinking lately, especially about his odd dreams and nebulous future. Once, he’d have happily joined the Nights Watch, one of the greatest honours in the North, had his father not forbidden it of him. The Nights Watch was the ancient brotherhood created by Brandon the Builder, founder of House Stark, in the wake of the Long Night eight thousand years ago; southerners believed that the Nights Watch main purpose was to keep out the Wildlings, but in truth they were the Watchers to ensure that the Others did not return. Many thought it impossible. It had been eight thousand years since the Others had been seen, and they were probably all dead, people said. But Jon, as a son of House Stark – bastard or not – knew the truth.

House Stark had been founded by Brandon the Builder in the Age of Heroes. House Stark’s words were a grim reminder of their beginnings in the wake of the Long Night, and grim portents of what would come once again. The family histories in the Lords’ solar held the truth, and only those with Stark blood in their veins may read them. That and they’re written in the Old Tongue.

Jon exhaled softly and gripped the reigns of his horse tighter. The Hunting party was exiting the Wolfswood by Crofters Village now, and the giant castle of Winterfell was visible through the low, grey clouds. Far as the eye could see, tents and bonfires had been built in the time Jon and the hunters had been gone. He felt a smile curving his mouth, his dark grey eyes lighting slightly. He truly did love the Harvest feast.

“I’ll race you,” he said abruptly to Jory, who jolted in surprise.

“You’re on,” Jory said, grinning sharply.

Jon dug his boot heels into his mounts' flank, crouching low, and was off like a shot. When he returned to Winterfell, Lord Stark smiled proudly at him for his kill, and the cooks marvelled over the size and health of the stag.

The preparations for the Harvest Feast were well under way, and Jon excused himself to bathe in the hot springs under the ancient castle of his forefathers, greatly looking forward to the Nights festivities.

***

_THE EXILED PRINCESS_

_Velvet Hills, 298 AC_

Daenerys Stormborn was exhausted, aching, and sick of the smell of horses and her brother Viserys’ whining that his army was going the wrong way. They were supposed to be going west, Viserys whinged, not East to Vaes Dothrak. But the Dothraki had their customs and traditions, Daenerys knew, and one of which was for a _khal_ to present his new wife to the _Dosh Khaleen,_ the Dothraki Wise Women, for guidance and approval.

Daenerys herself did not approve of her marriage to the Dothraki warlord khal Drogo, but she hadn’t had a choice in the matter. Viserys was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and he wanted it back from those who had Usurped it from their family. She just wanted back the house in Braavos with a red door and the scent of lemons, the childhood she had never known.

But it wasn’t meant to be. All her life Daenerys had been running. She was sick of it. She was sick of Viserys’ cruelty and madness. But alone she would never make it in such a cruel world. Perhaps now she was married to khal Drogo Viserys would lose the courage to hurt her. Her husband was large and strong, fearsome and talented with weapons.

Daenerys glanced at the older, handsome knight at her side. Ser Jorah was from Westeros, her home country – not that she _remembered_ her home country. Daenerys had been born nine months after her mother and brother fled Kings Landing to the Targaryen ancestral Island known Dragonstone during the worst storm in living memory. As the Rebellion reached a crescendo and the storm raged, smashing the Targaryen fleet to kindling, Daenerys Stormborn came into the world and the late Queen Rhaella breathed her last breath; something Viserys had never forgiven her for.

Whenever he got the chance when they were children running for their lives, huddled in dirty alleys, Viserys would tell Daenerys about the glory and prestige their family had once had. The names of their infamous dragons long dead. Whenever he spoke of the power house Targaryen had once had, a fervent, feverish light entered his watery, pale eyes that scared Daenerys. 

House Targaryen was no longer glorious or prestigious, but Daenerys was never brave enough to say so to her brother. House Targaryen had dwindled to an insane young man and terrified young woman.

“You must eat, _khaleesi_ ,” Ser Jorah said gently, handing Daenerys a chunk of horse meat jerky.

She accepted it reluctantly and bit off a piece. It didn’t taste badly, just bland. She missed the lavish meals Magister Illyrio had presented she and Viserys, as if to impress them. It didn’t take much to impress penniless, homeless orphans. The horse jerky would have to do, for now.

As she ate, Daenerys thought about the strange dream she had experienced the night before. After Drogo had once again taken her forcefully, harshly, she had rolled over and silently cried herself into a restless, odd dream. In the dream she had stood in an icy, barren tundra. She had called out for people long dead; her mother, father, brother Rhaegar...none had come. None but the dragon. A great, lumbering beast of scarlet and black, molten eyes seemingly staring into her very soul. But Daenerys had not been scared. No, rather she had been...relieved.

The scarlet and black beast had turned its head after taking its measure of Daenerys, and she had noticed the other dragon. It had been a pale grey with dark blue horns and spikes, it’s eyes an icy, knowing blue.

“ _Find me,”_ it had said, _“Find me, Daenerys Stormborn,”_

Daenerys had stared, crying out as she was bathed in black and white flames. But she had not burned. The dream had changed then, the tundra around her fading and a large, marble room forming around her. Before the throne stood a man with silver hair cradling a babe.

Daenerys knew it had been Rhaegar.

“ _His is the Song of Ice and Fire.”_ Rhaegar’s violet eyes pinned her to the spot, “ _The dragon must have three heads,”_

Daenerys had been woken, then, by her handmaidens and hastily dressed. She knew not what it meant. She had always had strange dreams. But never about a pale dragon begging for her to find him.

What did it mean, if anything? Daenerys wasn’t sure, but she did know that one of her ancestors, one she had been named after, Daenys the Dreamer, had experienced what the Targaryen's called ‘Dragon Dreams.’ Prophetic dreams that sometimes came true. Daenys herself had dreamt of the Doom of Valyria twelve years before it happened. Because her father, Aenar the Exile, believed her, the Targaryen Dragonlords survived the Doom and destruction of Valyria.

All Daenerys knew of Dragon Dreams were tales told to her by Viserys, and after speaking with Ser Jorah about the Rebellion, she knew not to trust a word Viserys told her about their family. She had grown up believing that their family had been wronged by a power hungry Usurper and that their father had been a great king. It was not so. Aerys Targaryen had been known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Mad King for a reason, Jorah told her. He had burned alive Lord Rickard Stark and made Brandon Stark choke himself on some Myrrish torture device.

Daenerys had been spectacularly ill after hearing that. Aerys hadn’t just been mad, he had been _evil_. Pure evil, and she couldn’t find it within herself to care much how the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, had broken his vows and oaths to kill the Mad King.

Daenerys knew not whom to ask about her odd dreams, but she would be sure to always remember them, to keep them chronicled to ensure they weren’t forgotten. For some reason, she knew they were at the very least, important.

With that thought, Daenerys nudged her silver into a canter and caught up with Ser Jorah, starting up yet another conversation of Westeros. Perhaps she would get the truth from Jorah Mormont of her family's history.

***

_THE QUIET WOLF_

_Winterfell, 298 AC_

Eddard Stark had never imagined himself as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. That had always been Brandon's future. But Brandon had died, murdered by the Mad King, and his brothers future had become Eddard's own. He had stepped up to the role reluctantly, and even more reluctantly had wed his brothers betrothed, Catelyn, rare as it was for Northerners to marry below the Neck. But the betrothal had been written by Eddard’s father, and the alliance had been needed for the Rebellion to be won.

Seventeen years later and Eddard and his wife still remained dutiful but not close. Catelyn had never forgiven him for fathering a bastard –

_Promise me, Ned._

-And Eddard couldn’t understand the Southern customs and traditions well enough for his cold, Tully wife. Family, Duty, Honour, were the words of his wife's house. Catelyn adored their children despite all of them being borne of duty, and still she remained dutiful, and she was honourable enough...well, she appeared so to outsiders and the rest of the Northerners. But Eddard knew she disposed Jon, his bastard son, though he knew not how she treated him.

Eddard loved his children. Robb, his heir at eighteen, Sansa, fifteen, Arya, thirteen, Bran, ten, and Rickon, eight. They were good children, even if they barely looked Northern. Many lords had shown their consternation at his children’s looks. Robb, with his auburn hair and Tully blue eyes. Many speculated the babe wasn’t Eddard’s, but a bastard. But Eddard knew the truth, Robb _was_ his son, the boy merely looked like his Tully ancestors. Sansa, with her copper locks and mother’s eyes. Arya looked the most like him, but Eddard often thought she was Lyanna reborn; Eddard's late younger sister.

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

Bran and Rickon looked nearly identical. They both had Stark grey eyes, but Catelyn's auburn hair. The only son of Ned's that looked like him was Jon, something that angered Catelyn endlessly. Eddard was grateful for it, truthfully. It ensured that Jon could be hidden in plain sight.

The Harvest Feast was well under way when Eddard saw Jon dancing happily with Arya standing on his boots. He smiled fondly and warmly at the sight of them spinning about the largest bonfire. He looked around for his other children, lips twitching when he saw Sansa – his eldest daughter had been throwing herself into her Northern lady's duties of late, demanding to be shown how to be a proper northern lady – blushing at something Domeric Bolton had said. Bran and Rickon were with Jory Mormont, the children's governess, playing with Jory’s daughters.

All the High Lords of the North had shown up for the festival. The buck Jon had taken down had been roasted in the open moors of Winterfell, cooks basting it in spices and summerwine. Men and women tore pieces of meat from the bone and scooped seasoned rice, roast vegetables, and boar onto plates and sat upon the ground or logs around fires to eat.

Eddard loved the traditional festivals of the North. The Harvest Feast, where Northerners converged on Winterfell to thank the gods and celebrate a good reaping of the fields. The Summer Snow festival, when children packed snow into balls and lobbed them at one another and the adults made mulled wine and wreaths and sacrificed an animal to the great Weirwood of Winterfell to ask the Gods to keep them and their family’s safe throughout the winter. Spring festival, Gods Day, Eddard loved them all; it was a time of togetherness. A time where titles mattered not. Low-born and high-born men and women mingled and danced and drank and feasted well into the night.

Eddard chuckled softly as Maege Mormont swept Greatjon Umber into her arms and spun him about the moors, the large man guffawing joyfully; Jory sighed at her mother’s antics but smiled nonetheless. Next to him, Howland Reed chuckled, too.

“Where is the Lady Catelyn, my Lord?” Howland asked.

Eddard resisted the urge to sigh by the skin of his teeth as Robb danced by with Alys Karstark in his arms. Catelyn had always refused to join in on Northern festivals, claiming head aches or upset stomachs; but Eddard knew that his cold wife had long ago declared the festivals as barbaric and heretical.

“Unwell,” Eddard told his old friend, who was watching Jon with a smile as he chuckled at something Eddard's brother Benjen had said; Eddard was grateful that Benjen had been given leave to come to the festival this year from his post as First Ranger of the Nights Watch, “Unfortunately she is confined to her quarters,”

Howland met Eddard's gaze knowingly, “Aye. Unfortunate,”

Eddard knew that Howland knew the truth. The man was a talented greenseer, able to see the future through dreams and visions. But the future was always changing based upon decisions of those in the visions he had. Howland had told Eddard that afternoon that a terrible, devastating future had been negated because of several choices made. But he had said nothing else, expression grave.

Eddard didn’t particularly _want_ to know.

“Father!” Eddard smiled at Arya, his little wild wolf's hair messy and cheeks flushed, “Dance with me, father!”

Eddard acquiesced easily, handing his mug of mulled wine to Howland. He scooped Arya into his arms and swept her around the bonfire, beaming as she laughed happily and freely, the bards starting up a jaunty tune. It always made him unbelievably happy when his children were happy.

And everyone was happy on this night, as they tossed offerings of roasted venison and boar into the bonfires and drank together, their cares forgotten for one night, at least.

It wouldn’t last.

For war was on the horizon.

***

_The Harvest Feast of 298AC was the last spent with the whole North congregated together in merriment. The night was long and joyful, and the morn after many woke with aching heads and nauseous belly’s. The sign of a good night in the North._

_But Jon Snow would wake troubled, having experienced a dream that left him feeling bereft and confused._

_Shortly after breakfast, word came of a Nights Watch deserter in the Hills. Deserters weren’t unheard of, but Eddard had never dealt with one himself in his tenure as Lord Stark._

_Some would say this is where the story truly began, with the terrified words of a Nights Watch deserter. Others would say that the Tale of Ice and Fire had been written in stone the night Daenys the Dreamer had foreseen it. Or perhaps the story had been continuing for all of history, and had never truly begun, and would never truly end..._

_***_

_The death of Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, blindsided many. For despite his advanced aged, Jon Arryn had been healthy and fit for his age. The fever that took him snuffed out his life within a night, leaving many with question, many with suspicions..._

_With his Hand dead, King Robert looked to the North for his answer. He would take himself and his family North, to appoint Eddard Stark, his foster brother, as Hand of the King..._

_***_

_THE LION QUEEN_

_The Red Keep, 298 AC_

Cersei Lannister watched as the Silent Sisters interred Jon Arryn's body like a hawk. She knew that he had somehow figured out her secret, but the real question was how? Who had told him? The old man had been smart, but not _that_ smart. If she could fool her own father, Lord Tywin Lannister, she could fool a nobody Lord of the Eyrie.

Cersei leaned against the balcony railing and kept an eye on Arryn's body, the incense smoke cloying, as her mind whirled. _Robert wants to go North,_ she thought, grimacing, _he'll make his stiff, honourable fool of a foster brother Hand when it should be father or Jaime._

Robert had let himself go in the passed seventeen years. When Cersei had married him, the King had been tall, broad, and handsome. But he had utterly disappointed and humiliated her by calling her by another woman’s name as they consummated their marriage.

Lyanna Stark was dead and gone, little less than a memory that haunted less and less people as the years passed. But Robert had never let the girl go; he clung to Lyanna Stark's memory like a barnacle to the side of a ship, lamenting over his lost love. The man was a fat, pathetic, drunk whoremonger.

Cersei rather believed that Lyanna, won, really. The girl was dead and didn’t have to put up with Robert fucking Baratheon pawing at her drunkenly and thrusting into her like a wild hog: brutally and with no finesse.

The jangling of armour made Cersei look up, and her expression soured further. Years ago, she had believed that she and Jaime would be together. That their being soulmates would lure him to her bed. But her dear twin had changed during his time as a glorified hostage to Aerys Targaryen. He had _refused_ her, so Cersei had had no choice but to seduce Lancel, her pathetic cousin.

“Sweet sister,” Jaime greeted, expression as grave as ever. It always was, with her. With their demonic little brother he was always warm and kind. But with her, now, he was grave and cold.

“Ser Jaime,” Cersei said coldly, looking away. She couldn’t believe she had loved Jaime, once. He had been her everything, her other half, her beloved twin and lover. Now he was less than even a brother.

Jaime smiled sarcastically, “You worry too much,”

Cersei glared, “You do not worry enough. Even when we were children. You jumped from the cliff at Casterly Rock, uncaring it was a hundred foot drop,”

Jaime turned to stare at Jon Arryn's body. He had changed. His hair, once long and golden, was cropped short and streaked with grey. He had obtained a scar in the Siege of Pyke that would have made any other man hideous, but only exacerbated Jaime’s beauty. The scar ran from his hairline above his left eye, through his brow and over the bridge of his nose. He’d almost lost his eye.

“Until you told father,” Jaime said, wrenching Cersei from her thoughts and making her look away from him. _He refused you. How could I have ever loved him?_ “‘Lannisters don’t act like fools,’ he told me,”

“Why do you even care?” Cersei asked sharply, viciously, her voice pitched low and dangerous. Jaime's green eyes flashed, and she plowed on, “It doesn’t concern you, Ser Jaime. Remember?”

Jaime smiled thinly, coldly, the smile he reserved for people he disposed, and said, “If yours and Lancel's little secret got out, sweet sister, it would ruin all of is; not just you,”

Cersei's blood boiled, “My children would be slaughtered if Arryn said anything. If he told my husband –”

Jaime interrupted, “Are their heads decorating the traitors walk? Is yours or your lovers? No.” He leaned forward, blazing with annoyance, “And if you _were_ all killed, who’s fault would that be?”

Cersei slapped him, trembling with rage, “Watch your tongue, _Ser_ ,” she spat viciously, “I am your _Queen_!”

Jaime's jaw worked, cheek bright red, and he bowed stiffly, sarcastically, “Apologies, your _Grace,_ I forgot myself,”

Cersei’s nostrils flared, and she tracked Jaime’s movements as he walked away, armour clanking as he went.

_Fool. He was a fool to refuse me. I am the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, the light of the west. He will come to regret it. I know he will. He is wrong, the frog was wrong. I will protect my children. They may have golden crowns, but they will not see golden shrouds until they are old and grey. There is none more beautiful than I._

***

_THE WOLF'S HEIR_

_WINTERFELL, 298 AC_

The deserter had been found wandering the White Hills half an hours ride from Winterfell. He had been taken to a small holdfast near by, ready for the Kings justice. Robb, his brothers, and father rode out at dawn with a retinue forty strong.

The breath of man and horse steamed in the cool dawn air. His father’s ward, a youth of twenty and one, Theon Greyjoy, held the sheathed great sword that had been with House Stark for generations. The blade was called Ice, and was wide as his father’s hand was long, and almost as tall as Lord Stark himself.

Lord Stark allowed the deserter, a boy in truth, to say his last words before he took his head. What the boy said rattled Robb and everyone present deeply.

“I should have warned them,” the boy said, trembling from fear and cold, “but – but the _Others are back_ ,”

Robb sucked in a breath and held it, blue eyes darting to his father’s face. Lord Stark, always a solemn man in the face of executions, now looked _grave_. It boded ill to see such a look on his father’s face.

“Don’t look away,” Jon told Bran, Arya, and Sansa; the three of them had never seen an execution before. It was their first. Their mother had thrown a fit befitting a child at the prospect of her daughters witnessing such brutality, “Father will know if you do,”

Robb had been happy when Sansa demanded to learn the ways of a proper Northern Lady. While Northern ladies did sew, many learned to govern households, wield a sword and how and hunt. Sansa, while still a proper lady at heart, had taken to the Northern way like a duck to water. Robb remembered the proud expression on Father’s face when she shot down her first rabbit, and the disgust on his mother’s.

Lord Stark nodded to Jory, who gently pushed the deserter forward. The boy laid his head on the block, tears dripping into the snow, and father planted the tip of Ice into the ground and gripped the pommel with both hands, bowing over it, “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, sentence you to die,”

Robb didn’t flinch when his father lifted Ice and brought it down, smoothly beheading the deserter. The boys head bounced and rolled over the ground, his blood soaking into the snow and turning it to pink slush.

“You did well,” Jon murmured lowly. Robb turned and approached his younger siblings, noting Sansa's pale face and clenched jaw, Arya's stern frown, and Bran's pursed lips, “Father will be proud,”

Robb placed a hand on the girls shoulders for support as father handed Ice back to Theon and approached them.

“Do you understand why I had to do it?” Father asked solemnly.

“Jon said he was a deserter,” Bran said, his young face grave.

“But do you understand why I had to kill him?” Father asked, brows furrowed.

“Our way is the Old Way,” Arya murmured.

Father nodded, “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,”

Sansa gazed up at father worriedly, “Is it true the Others have returned?”

Father looked even more grave, “I know not. I will have to write to the Lord Commander. But the White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years,”

Sansa nodded, accepting father’s answer. She knew that the Wall had stood for thousands of years and the Nights Watch had men enough to defend the realm even if the Walkers had returned. Robb followed Sansa to her horse and helped her mount; smiling faintly up at her.

“You did really well today, San,” he said, and she offered a small smile as she righted her mare's reigns.

“It wasn’t what I expected,” she admitted, “It wasn’t as...gruesome,”

Robb huffed a small laugh, “No, it rarely is except for battle,”

Robb returned to his own horse, and the retinue began their journey back to Winterfell. Halfway there, Arya challenged Jon and Robb to a race and they took off toward the bridge over a small creek, but halfway across the bridge their horses reared and snorted, eyes rolling from terror.

“Woah!” Arya cried, yanking hard at the reigns to control her spooked mount.

“What’s got them in a tizzy?” Jon asked rhetorically, looking around as though a mountain lion would leap from the woods surrounding them.

It wasn’t a mountain lion that stepped from the woods. No, it was a wolf. A very large, very deadly looking wolf. Around her paws were six pups tripping over their too big paws and lanky legs. Robb stared, reigning in his twitchy horse.

An arrow hit the ground in front of the wolf and her pups, skittering across the bridge. Robb turned in his saddle, glaring fiercely at Greyjoy, “Don’t do that again!”

Theon’s eyes narrowed, “I take orders from your father only,”

“Theon!” Father said sharply, and the youth quieted abruptly. Father dismounted and handed off the reigns of his horse to Jory, “She’s hurt,”

Robb turned back to face the wolf and realised it was true. About the wolfs throat was blood marring her dark grey fur. Possibly a wound lay beneath her thick fur. Her pups did not seem to have a care in the world, and gambolled toward Father happily with their tongue’s lolling from their mouths.

“It’s a freak,” Greyjoy said derisively.

“It’s a direwolf,” Father said, slowly dropping to a crouch. He held out a hand, lips twitching as the pups all but fell over themselves to lick and nip harmlessly at his hand. The mother wolf watch with an approving, imperious air. Then she stalked toward father, ignoring the rasp of steel as the guards gripped their swords and unsheathed them, “Stay your blades,”

Then men obeyed. Robb found himself holding his breath as the wolf stopped half a foot from father and sniffed at his face and hair, inspecting him closely. She seemed to approve, because she huffed and lowered her head to nudge at his hand, rumbling as father slowly, gently pet her fur.

“There’s seven,” Jon said suddenly, and Robb looked at him, brows raised, “One for the Stark’s. Father, you, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Uncle Benjen,”

“You’re a Stark, too,” Arya said crossly, expression pinched with righteous fury.

“He’s a Snow,” Greyjoy said coldly.

Sansa levelled Greyjoy with a truly impressive glare, “Jon is a Stark,” she said firmly.

Robb looked back at father petting the she-wolf to hide his smile. The wolf seemed happy, and nudged and licked at her pups. She turned and trotted back into the woods for a few moments before returning with a white bundle in her jaws. She trotted right over to Jon, whose horse nickered nervously and stepped back, and dropped the bundle before him.

Jon dismounted and picked the ball of fluff up, smiling faintly as it yipped and nuzzled into him.

“It’s the runt,” Greyjoy said, laughing uproariously, “That one’s yours, Snow,”

***

_THE QUIET WOLF_

_Winterfell's Godswood, 298 AC_

Eddard ran a piece of cloth over the ancestral blade Ice, half of the sword resting in the black pool under the Heart Tree. He always came to the Godswood to pray after taking a life, whether it be in battle or by execution. The only difference now was the large, grey and white direwolf sleeping beside him. She and her pups had followed the retinue back to Winterfell and refused to leave.

Catelyn had not been happy about the wolves. She had screamed upon seeing the pups, and had almost fainted dead away when the mother trotted into the courtyard, looking for all the world that she owned the castle. He had forbidden anyone from hurting the wolves, and he’d left his children in the kennels bickering over names.

Eddard glanced at the wolf slumbering at his side, “Frost?” he mused, lips twitching as the wolf perked up and glared at him, as if offended, “Okay, hm, what about Winter?” the wolf rested her head back on her paws, looking pleased, and Eddard huffed a laugh.

Winter lifted her head and growled lowly, ears twitching. Eddard followed her golden gaze and saw his lady wife approaching slowly, hesitantly. Eddard rested a hand on Winter's head, and she quieted immediately.

“My Lord,” Catelyn said stiffly, glancing at Winter worriedly as the wolf eyed her, “A raven from the capitol. I am sorry, my lord. Jon Arryn is dead,”

Eddard had been fond of his foster father, but not overly so. Jon Arryn had tried to make a Southerner out of him, and Eddard had not appreciated it whatsoever. Robert Baratheon had also been there, and Eddard hadn’t appreciated the man’s boisterous nature and whoring ways; when Eddard’s father had suggested marrying Lyanna to Robert, Eddard had only agreed because Robert was the perfect man to marry a Northern woman; accepting and tolerating of Lyanna's love of swords and riding.

But it hadn’t worked out.

“Your sister?” Eddard asked, referring to Catelyn’s younger sister Lysa, who had married the elderly Lord before the Rebellion to ally the east with the Riverlands, “The boy?”

“They have their health, gods be good,” Catelyn said, “The raven said more, my lord. The king is coming to Winterfell. With the Queen and all the rest of them,”

Eddard sighed and clenched his jaw, “I see. Thank you, my Lady,”

Catelyn nodded and left the Godswood as though the Others were nipping at her heels. She had always hated the Godswood. But Eddard was too preoccupied with other thoughts than his wife’s discomfort.

_If Robert is coming here, it means only one thing. He wants to make me Hand of the King. But I cannot do so, not with this news of Others beyond the Wall. I must write Lord Commander Mormont and see how much truth is to it._

Eddard closed his eyes and leaned against the Heart Tree, silently praying for guidance.

***

_It was at this moment that Lord Stark knew things were changing. Talk of the others, direwolves south of the wall, and the king visiting? Times were changing, indeed, and Lord Stark suspected it would not be for the better._


	2. Secrets and Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have 0 self control. Enjoy.

_This moment was the beginning of the end for peace in Westeros. The Gods had begun to subtly guide their disciples through their lives through instinctive urges or visions sent through dreams. But the Gods were not infallible. And mistakes were bound to be made. Not many, but some._

_The Old Valyrian Gods were waking, and through the Lord of Light they sent one of the Lord’s daughters to the Exiled Princess to steer her onto a less...destructive path..._

_***_

_THE EXILED PRINCESS_

_The Great Grass Sea, 298 AC_

The way of life for the Dothraki wasn’t unusual to Daenerys. She and Viserys had survived by constantly moving around Essos after Ser Willem died. She was used to the nomadic life, never setting down roots. But she was not used to riding so often. Her hands had become calloused from the reigns of her silver, and her body ached after a long day of riding across barren lands. Her handmaidens, slaves, in truth, pressed a herbal remedy to her cracked and bleeding palms and wrapped them in cloth, heads meekly bowed.

Daenerys stared at the three dragon eggs gifted to her by Magister Illyrio. She had taken to putting them in a brazier when the horde stopped to make camp of an evening, but even without flames licking at the scaled surface of the eggs they were warm, pulsing with life.

It did not make sense. From all accounts Daenerys had heard, the dragons were dead and gone and the gifted eggs had long since turned to stone. How did she feel life in them, then? She knew not.

Once Daenerys’ hands were wrapped, her handmaidens scurried from the tent. Daenerys stood with a wince and moved to keel by the brazier, eyes on the eggs.

“Do you feel life in them, Daenerys Stormborn?”

Daenerys twisted around with a gasp, staring at the stunningly beautiful woman dressed in a red cloak. The woman was not tall, nor was she overly short. She had locks of thick auburn hair and glowing red eyes. At her throat pulsed a bright, red ruby.

“Who are you and how did you get in here?” Daenerys demanded, glancing at the tent opening.

The woman smiled a sly, secretive smile, “I am Kinvara, High Priestess of the Lord of Light, R’hollor,”

Daenerys frowned. She had heard of such priests and priestesses while living in Braavos. All religions were accepted in the Secret City, but that did not explain what Kinvara was doing there, in her tent. She lifted her chin, glaring at the woman, “What do you want?”

Kinvara’s smile did not waver, “I am here to give you a message, Daenerys Stormborn; the Lord of Light has come to me in the flames, and he wishes for me to guide you through the coming months,”

“Why?” Daenerys demanded sternly; jaw clenched.

“If you remain with the Dothraki,” Kinvara began, stepping gracefully up to another of the braziers in the tent; Daenerys shifted to follow her, eyes narrowed, “You will lose the child growing in your womb; indeed, it shall bring you power, and you will go on to liberate those in chains, but the way barred by death, betrayal, and loss. What will you choose, Daenerys Stormborn?”

Daenerys placed a hand over her flat stomach, her eyes wide, “Child?” Kinvara dipped her chin in a respectful nod, “What do you mean, liberate those in chains? Do you mean…slaves?”

“Yes, Princess.” Kinvara’s smile turned once again sly, “Do you not feel it in your blood, daughter of dragons? The waking of the Gods of Flame and Wind, of Blood and Smoke?”

Daenerys inhaled sharply, remembering her dreams of large, winged shapes screeching and bellowing as they circled the air, “Speak plainly, Priestess,” she commanded, “I have no tolerance for riddles,”

Kinvara demurred, “As you wish. The Old Valyrian Gods are waking for the first time in over three hundred years, child. They wish to protect the last dragonlords,”

Daenerys swallowed dryly, “Viserys and I?”

Kinvara met Daenerys’ gaze levelly, “Are you the last Targaryen’s?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, wholly believing her words, “My brothers’ children were slaughtered by Tywin Lannister’s mad dog, Clegane,”

Kinvara smiled, “Not all of them. The secret Dragon hides beneath the snow. You must find him. Your life depends on it. The world depends on it. When you make your choice, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, choose Fire and Blood,”

Daenerys blinked, confused and stunned, only to find that Kinvara had vanished. She inhaled sharply, standing, and inspected the entire tent for the Priestesses presence, but there was no one there. She stood in the middle of her tent, cupping her flat stomach, as the Dothraki jeered outside.

Daenerys had a choice to make.

***

_THE DRUNK PRIEST_

_Winterfell, 298 AC_

Thoros of Myr had had no choice but to become a Priest in the Red Temple of Volantis as a child. He was born the youngest of eight, so his father handed him over to the Temple. In their infinite wisdom, they made him a priest rather than a warrior for the Lord or a Temple prostitute like other children. So, he spoke the prayers and spells and studied, but he also found himself often tumbling into bed with women. Such wicked women.

Thoros always did have a way with tongues.

But when he gazed into the flames, sometimes Thoros saw things. But he was more bother to the Temple’s High Priests and Priestesses than he was worth. When the High Priest saw Robert Baratheon’s ascension to the Iron Throne in the flames, he sent Thoros to convert Westeros’ new king to the Lord of Light.

It did not work out that way.

Perhaps the High Priest thought that Robert would see a kindred spirit in Thoros. Perhaps he thought that if Robert converted, the Lord of Light would remove the Seven Who Are One from Westeros in a single stroke. Thoros didn’t particularly care, either way; he was free.

Thoros did what he could, but Robert Baratheon was not a religious man. He had no care for gods, whether it be the Lord of Light or the Seven or the Old Gods. He cared not one whit. All Robert cared for was drinking, whoring, and waving his war hammer about. And so, in time, did Thoros.

Thoros did win some glory, as he was the first man through the gates in Greyjoy’s Rebellion, sword flaming. But the years passed, as they wont to do, and Thoros’ belief in the Lord of Light waned, and he became fat.

That was before Kinvara visited him through the Glass Candles and told him to seek out the hidden prince in Winterfell. Thoros had been drunk at the time with two whores wrapped around him, so it did take him some time to realise what the woman was telling him. Honourable fool Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, had hidden the secret son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark as his own bastard.

Thoros had nearly choked by laughing so hard.

Kinvara had not been impressed.

So, there he was, riding North with the King’s retinue with plans to guide the hidden prince toward the Light. Hopefully, Lord Stark wouldn’t gut him on sight. Did the boy even know who he was? Perhaps not, if Lord Stark wished to keep him safe from Robert’s blind rage and wrath in the face of any Targaryen’s. Did the man conveniently forget that the founder of his house, Orys Baratheon, was Aegon the Conqueror’s bastard half-brother? Or that his grandmother Rhaelle had been a Targaryen?

Perhaps the drink had addled the king’s brains.

Thoros had never been so far north. He mostly spent time in the capitol haunting whorehouses or inns, having long ago given up converting Robert to the Faith of R'hollor. He also knew it would be folly to even attempt to convert the Northmen to R'hollor. They had been worshipping the faceless, nameless Gods of the Wood since the Pact was sworn on the Isle of Faces.

Despite his many flaws, Thoros was not stupid. He knew why R'hollor wished for him to guide the hidden prince. He had seen as much in the flames.

The One True Enemy had woken, and the fight for survival had begun.

***

_THE RIVER TROUT_

_Winterfell, 298 AC_

Catelyn Tully Stark despised the North. It was too cold, too grey, too barbaric. When her father had announced she was to marry Brandon Stark, she had dutifully agreed but secretly fretted. All children Anointed in the Light of the Seven Who Are One knew how barbaric the Northmen are. But Catelyn had never known just how much. Living in Winterfell for close to twenty years had opened her eyes, and not in a good way.

Catelyn’s betrothed Brandon had been murdered by Mad King Aerys, and so she felt relief. Perhaps she would get out of marrying a Northman. But no. Her father had demanded she wed Brandon's solemn, grim brother Eddard. Eddard may have been raised in the Eyrie, but despite taking a man from the North, one could not take the North from the man.

Catelyn's husband was cool, grim, and solemn. In another life perhaps they could have learnt to love one another, if not for Eddard bringing home another woman’s child. But Catelyn Tully was nothing if not dutiful. She gave her Lord husband an heir, a spare, and three more children to boot. But she saw the way the Northern Lords side-eyed her son, Robb, and muttered about his southern Tully looks. It infuriated her. Her son was trueborn, the heir of Winterfell.

Eddard’s bastard, Jon Snow, looked more northern than most of Catelyn's trueborn children save Arya. Oh, how that girl made Catelyn despair. She could not sew or dance or sing properly, not like Sansa. But even Sansa had forsaken her proper southern lessons for barbaric northern practices.

Catelyn despaired for her children’s marriage prospects. The king would not want Sansa to marry his son and heir, Joffrey, if she ran about in breeches with a sword at her waist. Arya would be hard-pressed to find a proper husband, one of an age with her, let alone an older lord.

But those fears and worries could wait. The scouts had returned with news of the King's slow-going procession, and they would arrive in mere hours, so Catelyn had to prepare the castle for their visitors. Everything had to be perfect for the royal party.

“We shall need plenty of candles for Lord Tyrion's rooms, it is said he reads all through the night,” Catelyn told the steward, Vayon Poole, who nodded seriously.

“It is also said he drinks through the night,” Poole said, hands clasped.

Catelyn pursed her lips, “Indeed. Bring another two casks of wine up from the cellar, then, Poole,”

A yapping bark distracted Catelyn, and she turned to scowl at the blond and white wolf pup sitting in the courtyard, peering up to the skies. The damnable beasts had grown unbelievably fast and growled and bared their fangs at her whenever given the chance.

Catelyn loathed them. But her children were happy with their beasts at their sides, and her husband had forbidden any harm to come to them, and Catelyn was a dutiful wife.

Looking up, Catelyn frowned severely when she noticed her youngest son Bran on the roof, “Brandon Stark! What have I told you about climbing?!”

Bran dropped down onto the floor nimbly, a mischievous smile on his face, “The king is coming! There coming up our road, mother!”

Catelyn’s nostrils flared, “Go wash your hands and face, Brandon, now!”

Bran nodded, looking sulky, but obeyed. His pup followed at his heels, lanky legs loping over the ground. Catelyn scowled at it, then turned to Poole, “Where is Lord Stark?”

***

_THE RED WOLF_

_Winterfell, 298 AC_

Sansa hurried down the hall, pulling her cloak on as she went, and smiled at a servant as she dodged the woman carrying a stack of linen toward the guest wing in the Great Keep, “Sorry, Marla!”

Marla chuckled, “S’okay, milady!”

Sansa grinned, bounding down the stairs to the courtyard. Already the household had gathered, and her family stood in a line to greet the king. She stepped between Bran and Robb, frowning when she didn’t see Arya.

“Sansa, where is your sister?” mother demanded, peering around father and Robb.

Sansa shrugged, “Not sure, mother,”

Catelyn’s nostrils flared, a sure sign she was annoyed, but suddenly Arya appeared wearing her new wooden tunic dress and breeches Sansa had sewn her as a nameday present. Mother looked scandalised, but there wasn’t time for her to change. Arya despised dresses and frippery. Sansa enjoyed dressing up for special occasions, but she had been wearing breeches herself more as of late.

Sansa nudged Arya, smirking, and her sister poked her tongue out cheekily. The girls had gotten closer since their father had sat them down after Septa Mordane had been thrown out, and they had a better understanding of one another. No longer did they fight like beasts, and Sansa actually enjoyed being so close to her little sister.

Sansa straightened as the King's retinue entered, a swarm of gold and red and yellow. She lifted her chin proudly, ensuring to keep a polite if not bland smile on her face.

“That’s Jaime Lannister,” Arya whisper-shouted, tilting her head toward a tall, handsome man on a white destrier. Even with the scar on his face he was handsome, Sansa thought.

A large, dark horse caparisoned in the Baratheon colours of black and yellow trotted under the North gate portcullis. Sana blinked, stunned, at the extremely fat, red-faced man mounted on the horse.

That couldn’t be the King, could it...? Father had told them stories about the Demon of the Trident. The man before them looked more like the Walrus of the Trident, truthfully.

The man dismounted and stormed towards father, expression severe. Her father took a knee, and Sansa, her siblings, mother, and the household followed suit. She watched from the corner of her eye as the King twitched a finger and they all rose.

King Robert eyed father, “You got fat,”

Sansa's eyes bulged, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing, especially when father merely eyed the King’s protruding belly pointedly. The king roared with laughter and embraced her father, who grimaced and looked uncomfortable, “Nine years!” King Robert shouted, “Nine years since I’ve seen you. Where the hells have you been?”

Father offered a polite smile, “Guarding the North for you, your Grace. Winterfell is yours,”

King Robert nodded, glancing at mother, “Cat!” he crowed, embraced her. He dropped a ham sized fist on Rickon’s head and ruffled his curls. Rickon looked as though he wished to bite it. He moved down the line, shaking Robb's hand in greeting.

Sansa smiled and curtseyed, “Welcome to Winterfell, your Grace,”

“My, you’re a pretty one.” Sansa swallowed the urge to cringe as the King _leered_ at her.

King Robert peered down at Arya, face paling a little, “What’s your name?”

“Arya,” she said, then, “Your Grace,”

King Robert nodded faintly, then turned to greet Bran, who smiled politely, “Oh, you’ll be a warrior. Show us your muscles.” Bran did so, reluctantly, and Robert laughed.

Sansa turned, watching as a willowy woman entered the courtyard on foot. On the road outside stood a forty-horse wheelhouse. How...impractical of the Queen to ride in such a monstrosity. It must have taken them longer to reach Winterfell because of it.

Cersei Lannister was beautiful, there was no denying it. But Sansa's hackles raised as she approached. There was something dangerous about the Queen, that was for sure. Something poisonous in her green eyes, especially when she coldly smiled at father and held out a slim, pale hand daintily.

Trotting obediently behind their mother were two perfectly blonde children. Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, Sansa assumed. Then where was Prince Joffrey? She scanned the royal party, gaze landing on a pretty blonde boy with arrogance writ across his face.

Prince Joffrey looked like one of the princes from the stories she used to devour as a child. His golden hair hung in perfect curls to his shoulders, and his green eyes all but glowed. Sansa wasn’t impressed, and despite herself her gaze was drawn to the man beside the prince; even sitting on his horse she could tell he was tall, broad, and a warrior. He was handsome, even if half of his face was horribly scarred.

Sansa had had her life violently turned on its head in the past several weeks. A part of her mourned the loss of her naivety and innocence, but another part was grateful that she knew real life wasn’t like the songs. Princes may be golden and handsome, but that could hide a vicious beast.

Once the introductions were over, Sansa watched as the King snapped out, “Ned, take me to your crypts. I wish to pay my respects,”

Queen Cersei's eyes flashed, “We’ve been riding for over a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait,”

Sansa turned to look at father and saw his jaw clench and eyes blaze. Oh, no, father was not impressed with the Queen whatsoever. And neither was the king, if the glare he shot her was anything to go by. He blatantly ignored her and stormed toward the crypt, father following.

“This is going to be fun,” Arya said sarcastically, voice low.

Sansa hummed, “Indeed,”

A few minutes later found Sansa sitting in the sewing room with Arya, Princess Myrcella, Jeyne Poole, and the princess’s ladies in waiting embroidering. Arya looked ready to fall asleep, and Jeyne Poole was eyeing the princess with stars in her eyes, monopolising her time.

“How was the journey, Princess?” Sansa interrupted, smiling kindly, “I hope it went smoothly with little incident,”

Myrcella Baratheon was six and ten and was a true beauty. She would have a hard time beating back any suitors, Sansa thought, especially when she smiled like that, all bright and beautiful, “Oh, it went well enough, Sansa,” she said, looking a little irritated, “Mother’s wheelhouse lost a wheel twice,”

“Oh, dear,” Jeyne simpered, “That would have been awfully inconvenient,”

Myrcella smiled slyly, “It was actually a blessing. It meant I could get _out_ of the wheelhouse for a while,”

Arya guffawed, amused, and Sansa grinned. Jeyne, the poor thing, looked confused; as if she couldn’t figure out whether to laugh or frown.

“I would do the same, Princess,” Arya admitted, “I prefer to ride myself,”

“Oh, I wish!” Myrcella said, sounding dreamy and envious, “Mother won’t let me ride if it’s not side-saddle,”

“Father lets us ride,” Arya said, “Perhaps you could borrow a pair of my breeches, Princess?”

Myrcella glowed, “I’d love to, Arya. And please, call me Myrcella,”

Sansa smiled, “I’ll ask Robb if he can take us on the morrow, shall I?”

Jeyne screwed up her nose, “I shan’t be joining you. Riding astride is horribly uncomfortable,”

“No one invited you,” Arya said caustically.

Jeyne went red, “I wasn’t talking to you, Horseface,”

Sansa’s eyes snapped to her former best friend, “ _Jeyne_ ,”

Myrcella eyed Jeyne with contempt, “That was rude and unkind. Apologise to _Lady_ Arya, if you please. I do not like it when people insult my friends,”

Arya looked surprised but pleased as Jeyne stammered an apology before fleeing the room, humiliated. Sansa felt ashamed, as she always did when she remembered a time it would have been _her_ insulting her little sister rather than Jeyne alone.

But that was then, and this was now. Sansa had changed for the better, and she was glad for it. Nothing could come between she and her sister. Not even an old friend.

***

_THE QUIET WOLF_

_Winterfell’s Crypts, 298 AC_

“Did you have to bury her here?” Robert asked, tears in his dark blue eyes, “She should have been buried on a hill under the sun,”

Eddard swallowed the urge to roll his eyes and said, “Lyanna was a Stark of Winterfell. Here is where she belongs,”

Robert nodded absently, placing a speckled bird’s feather in the palm of Lyanna’s effigy, “She belonged with me,”

Eddard looked down, glaring at the dirt floor of the crypts. _Lyanna belonged to no one but herself,_ he thought, _least of all you, Robert._ He looked up again, jaw ticking as Robert cupped the statue’s cheek, “In my dreams, I kill him every night,”

“It's done, your Grace,” Eddard said firmly, “The Targaryen’s are gone,”

“Not all of them.” Robert turned and faced Eddard, who stood tall, “Varys tells me that Viserys Targaryen has wed his sister Daenerys to a Dothraki horselord,”

Eddard internally winced. The poor girl, marrying such a savage, but he did not say as much, “And?” he asked, “What do we have to fear?”

Robert scowled, cheeks ruddy with rage, “If the Dothraki cross the Narrow Sea, all forty thousand of them –”

“They have no ships, Robert,” Eddard interrupted, “The Dothraki fear the sea, any water their horses cannot drink they steer clear of,”

Robert was still scowling mightily, “I need you in Kings Landing, Ned. I need someone I can trust. Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King,”

Eddard wanted to sigh. But instead, he took a knee and bowed his head, “I am not worthy of the honour,”

Robert snorted, “I’m not trying to honour you. I’m trying to get you to rule my Kingdom while I drink, whore and eat myself to an early grave. Damn it, Ned, stand up,”

Eddard reluctantly did so, meeting Robert’ bloodshot, watery eyes, as the man continued, “We were supposed to be family, once. We were meant to rule together. I have a son; you have a daughter. We'll join our houses,”

Eddard stared, “You honour me, your Grace,”

“So, you’ll do it? Come south and be my hand?” Robert asked, though it was not a question: it was the command of a king. Eddard knew not this man before him. The king was a different person all together from the boy he had been raised with. Their relationship had not been the same since Robert spat at and laughed over the brutalised bodies of Elia Martell and her children, calling them ‘dragonspawn.’

“I must speak to my wife,” Eddard said, “And my son and heir, Robb. He will be the Stark in Winterfell if I am to become your Hand, your Grace,”

“Of course. Sleep on it, talk to your wife and heir. But don’t keep me waiting, Ned. I’m not a patient man.”

Eddard watched as Robert left the crypts, stomping down the corridor. He turned to look at Lyanna, whose effigy seemed to be crying as a drop of condensation dripped down her face.

***

_THE HIDDEN PRINCE_

_Winterfell, 298 AC_

Jon was not impressed with the King. He was fat, slovenly, and seemed determined to grope or beget every woman that was not his wife with child. Currently he held a serving girl on his lap, fondling her in front of everyone, and Queen Cersei watched with a sneer.

Jon turned away and slipped Ghost, his direwolf, a pork chop under the table. The white wolf gulped it down happily, and Jon chuckled softly. A hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up with a smile, “Uncle Benjen! I thought you were returning to the Wall?”

“I was,” Benjen said, swinging a long leg over the bench Jon himself sat on to sit, “But then I got word thr king was visiting and decided to come for moral support. Why are you sitting all the way here in the corner?”

Jon raised a wry brow, “Lady Catelyn thought it would be in bad taste to sit a bastard amongst the royal family,”

Benjen's expression twisted with irritation, “That woman...” he trailed off, and Jon didn’t bother hiding his smile as his uncle shook himself, “Anyway, how are you, nephew?”

Jon lifted a shoulder, “Well enough. The king isn’t the same Demon of the Trident he was,”

Benjen snorted, glancing over his shoulder, “Aye, he isn’t,”

Jon didn’t understand why the man had let himself go so badly. He was beyond fat and sweating through the luxurious silks he wore. The young man grimaced and looked away as the King buried his face in a serving woman's chest and shook his head back and forth.

“Are you going south with your father?” Benjen asked curiously, pouring himself a cup of sweet summerwine.

Jon pulled a face, looking down when Ghost whined and put his head on Jon's knee, “No, I don’t know what I will be doing; he’s forbidden me from joining the Nights Watch,”

Benjen frowned, “I heard. I offered to take you with me back to the Wall,”

“Let me guess,” Jon began, amused, “He got that stern, constipated look and said ‘no,’?”

Benjen snorted, “Yes, he did. I’m going to speak with him again,”

Jon nodded and stood along with his uncle, but headed for the door rather than his father. Ghost gambolled along beside him, tongue lolling. In the yard, Jon grabbed a practice sword and began hitting a straw dummy, practising several manoeuvres Ser Rodrick, Winterfell's Master at Arms, had taught them.

“Is it vanquished?” a drawling voice asked, and Jon turned in surprise. Ser Jaime Lannister was smirking faintly at him, and his brother Lord Tyrion stood next to him; the difference between the brothers was plain: Ser Jaime, even scarred, was tall, golden, and strong. Lord Tyrion was stunted, twisted, with pale, almost white, hair and mismatched eyes of black and green.

“Ser Jaime, Lord Tyrion,” he greeted, glancing at the battered dummy, and smiled faintly, “I think so,”

Ser Jaime’s smirk turned a little more genuine, “You’re Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard, aren’t you?”

Jon's smile vanished, “Eddard Stark is my father, yes,”

“And Lady Stark is not,” Lord Tyrion said simply, succinctly, “That makes you a bastard,”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, “It does,”

“You must excuse my little brother,” Ser Jaime said, “Tyrion does not know the meaning of the word ‘tact,’”

“Clearly,” Jon said dryly, lips twitching when the brothers laughed.

“I like you,” Tyrion said, wagging a stubby finger up at Jon, “Because I like you, bastard, let me give you some advice; never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used against you,”

“What do you know of being a bastard?” Jon demanded sharply.

Lord Tyrion’s brows rose, “All dwarves are bastards in their fathers’ eyes,”

“You are your mother and father’s trueborn son,” Jon retorted, frowning.

“Am I?” Tyrion asked, ignoring Ser Jaime’s gusty sigh of irritation, “My mother died giving birth to me, and my father has never been sure,”

“Ignore him,” Ser Jaime said, eyeing Jon, “How about a spar?”

Jon blinked, stunned. _The_ Ser Jaime Lannister wanted to spar with _him_ , a bastard? Jon wasn’t dumb. Ser Jaime was one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms; knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne at thirteen after assisting in killing the Smiling Knight. So he agreed, and passed the evening sparring with Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, as Tyrion cheered them on, wine in hand.

***

_THE BLACK WOLF_

_Wolfswood, 298 AC_

Benjen waited impatient for his brother and oldest nephews to arrive in the small, secret clearing he, Lyanna, and Ned had discovered when they were children. He had lit two torches and thrust them into the ground, and his horse grazed a few feet away. Finally, he heard the sound of hooves and pushed off the tree he had been leaning on.

Ned looked as solemn as always, but Benjen could see lingering fear and worry in his big brothers’ eyes. Robb and Jon both looked nonplussed as they dismounted and tied their horses to low hanging branches.

“Father, why are we here?” Robb asked, frowning at Ned.

Ned sighed, “Robert has asked me to be his Hand of the King,”

Jon’s brows furrowed, and he said hesitantly, “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s an honour I could have done without,” Ned admitted dryly, running a hand through his long, dark hair, “The reason Benjen and I have brought you here is because there are certain truths you must know, Jon. And as acting Lord of Winterfell while I’m in the capitol, Robb, you must need to know, too,”

Benjen watched Jon's face as it went through a range of emotions; puzzlement, realization, and anticipation. Ned cleared his throat and continued, Benjen standing next to him in support, “The truth is that Robert’s Rebellion was begun on a lie. Our sister Lyanna was a free spirit, a true Northern woman, and chafed against our father’s southern ambitions,”

Benjen went on for Ned as he took a moment, “As you well know, a Tourney was held at Harrenhal in the year of the false spring. What you don’t know is that Lyanna stopped a young boy being hurt by three southern squires. That boy was Lord Howland Reed. She chased off the squires and parched Howland up, then invited him to sup with us in the castle that night. She urged Howland to fight the squires in the joust the next day, but Howland refused,”

Jon and Robb looked confused, but Ned plowed on with the story no matter how painful, “By this time, Robert and Lyanna had been tentatively betrothed. Lyanna was not happy. Anyway, the next day a mystery knight entered the joust; The Knight of the Laughing Tree. They bested the three squires. King Aerys was so paranoid at this point, he ordered the mystery knight found and brought before him. Prince Rhaegar found them: Lyanna, abandoning her stolen armour, and promised to keep her secret,”

“That’s why he crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty?” Jon asked, shocked, “Because he knew she was the mystery knight?”

“Yes,” Benjen said heavily, “but what many don’t know is that Rhaegar Targaryen organised the Tourney with Lord Whent's help in order to gather all the High Lords of the Realm to force his father to abdicate the Throne. Aerys had only grown madder and more unstable since the Defiance of Duskendale and Rhaegar worried for the well-being of the Realm, but Aerys somehow discovered the plot,”

“And he showed up,” Robb said in realization, “He also knighted Ser Jaime to the Kingsguard,”

“More like a glorified hostage to keep Tywin Lannister out of any plots to overthrow him,” Jon said caustically.

“Exactly,” Ned murmured, “Aerys knew that Tywin had the ability to overthrow him and wished to keep him muzzled. The Tourney ended, and many were stunned at Rhaegar's audacity to crown a woman not his wife as Queen of Love and Beauty right in front of Elia Martell; but there was another hidden plot, one that involved Prince Rhaegar taking a second wife due to Elia's inability to have more children after Aegon,”

“Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar were _married_?” Robb demanded, absolutely stunned.

Ned grimaced, “Lyanna fled Winterfell in late 281 after they returned from the Tourney. She, Rhaegar and Elia had been in contact. But father had set a date for her wedding to Robert, and she ran in fear rather than tell him the truth. She left letters with Benjen,”

“Father was angry, but more resigned. He accepted it. We left for Riverrun for Brandon's wedding, but when we arrived Robert Baratheon was filling Brandon's head with lies about Rhaegar and what kind of man he was,” Benjen explained, “Leading to Brandon rushing off to the capitol on his wedding day. Brandon had been miserable about getting married. Snapping and snarling at everyone, horrified at the thought of being chained down to a woman,”

“And Grandfather followed,” Jon murmured, pursing his lips, “Why?”

“He took proof of Lyanna and Rhaegar’s marriage to the Capitol in the hope of staying Aerys' hand. It was all for naught, and thus began the Rebellion,” Ned explained, expression tight, “Once Rhaegar was killed on the Trident and the Kingslayer killed Aerys, I went to lift the Siege of Storms End and got word that Lyanna was in Dorne, at the Tower of Joy,”

Benjen kept a keen eye on Jon's face as Ned haltingly continued the story, “When I arrived with Howland Reed, Lord William Dustin, Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, and Ser Mark Ryswell,”

“We know this part of the story,” Robb said, confused, “You fought and bested Ser Arthur Dayne,”

Benjen snorted and Ned grimaced, throwing him a glare, before continuing, “Ser Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne, and Oswell Whent were guarding the Tower. I informed them of Rhaegar’s passing, and asked why they weren’t on the Trident,”

“Why would Rhaegar want such good swordsmen to guard the Tower and Aunt Lyanna?” Jon asked, eyes wide, “Wouldn’t he rather them fighting beside him?”

Ned closed his eyes, as if pained, then opened them and continued, “My men and I fought. Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell went down first, but I was locked in battle with Ser Arthur. I disarmed him. Then Lyanna screamed; Howland came up behind Arthur with a dagger, but I stopped him from killing Dayne and swore I wouldn’t harm my sister, I just wanted to see her. Arthur agreed,”

“Ser Arthur is _alive_?” Robb and Jon demanded at the same time.

Ned ignored them, or didn’t hear them, his eyes glazed as if he was back at the Tower, the Dornish heat bearing down on him, “I ran to the room at the top of the Tower and found Lyanna in a bed drenched with blood. I – she was delirious from fever, she thought I was a dream. I knelt by her side and took her hand. She begged me to listen to her, to promise her that I’d – that I’d –”

Benjen placed a hand on Ned's shoulder comfortingly, and Robb and Jon stepped closer, stunned. They had never seen Ned cry, that much was obvious. A moment later, Ned managed to get his emotions under control, “Lyanna had not long ago given birth.” Robb and Jon sucked in sharp breaths, and Ned went on almost absently, too stuck in past memories; horrific memories, “There was a handmaiden in the room. She handed me the babe. Lyanna begged me to protect him, to keep him safe from Robert; she told me that Robert would kill him. With her last breath, she named her son Jaehaerys Targaryen, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms,”

Benjen gripped Ned's shoulder tighter, “And he did,” he said, “For almost twenty years Ned has kept Lyanna's son safe as –”

“As his own bastard son,” Robb breathed, eyes almost comically wide.

Jon’s breath whooshed from his lungs as though he’d been punched in the chest, and he stumbled back. He stared at Ned and Benjen, eyes blown wide with shock, “No...” he whispered, “I’m – I’m not...”

“Yes,” Ned said heavily, with finality, “Your name, your real name, is Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Targaryen,”

Jon stepped closer, dark eyes burning with an emotion Benjen couldn’t figure out, “You are the most honourable man I’ve ever met...and you lied to me...my whole life. All I’ve ever wanted was to be a Stark, to be...accepted, to know who my mother was...and you lied to me,”

“Jon –” Ned began, desperately.

Jon punched him, fist cracking across Ned's jaw. Hard. Benjen rocked back, absolutely stunned. Robb shouted in shock and dragged Jon away, whose knuckles were bleeding sluggishly and face was pale. Jon had never been particularly violent or temperamental. The hit had come out of nowhere, but it wasn’t completely surprising.

Ned straightened, gently prodding his rapidly bruising jaw, “Everything I did, everything I have done, was to keep you safe, Jon,” he said quietly, “I promised Lyanna as she lay dying that I would,”

“You could have told me,” Jon snapped, “I know how to keep a secret,”

Robb manhandled Jon so they stared at one another, “Jon, it changes nothing. You are my brother, my family –”

“It changes everything!” Jon interrupted, vibrating with rage, “A Usurper, a child killer, is sitting on my family's Throne – Tywin Lannister sits happy in his golden castle by the sea – my siblings were slaughtered like animals, Elia Martell –”

Benjen gripped Jon's shoulder, “Listen to me, Jon, listen!” he turned him, shaking him a little, “Yes, Ned and I lied to you, kept your true identity from you, but don’t you understand that Robert, Tywin, _Cersei_ , would have had you assassinated as a babe in your crib? Ned may have kept the truth from you, but he kept you safe, Jon. And if you want to take the Throne and make those guilty for harming your family pay, then we shall stand beside you to do so,”

“Gods,” Jon breathed, looking at Ned, who looked grim and concerned, “I’m the rightful heir to the Iron Throne,”

“Just figured that out, did you?” Robb said dryly, brow raised.

Benjen chuckled, releasing his nephew, “Are you calm now, Jon?”

Jon nodded, clenching his fists, and said to Ned, “I’m sorry for hitting you,”

Ned winced, “You pack a mean punch, son, but I deserved it,”

Jon’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, “What now?”

Benjen glanced at Ned, who sighed, “Now I speak to my wife,”

Robb snorted, “Have fun,”

***

_THE RIVER TROUT_

_Winterfell, 298 AC_

Catelyn met her husband’s solemn, dark gaze in the reflection of the mirror. She placed her brush down and turned on her settee, facing him, “My Lord?”

“My lady,” he greeted stiffly, I apologise for interrupting you so late, but I am obligated to tell you that his Grace King Robert has offered me the position of Hand of the King,”

Catelyn smiled, but it faded when her lord husband did not reciprocate, “Are you not pleased?”

“It is an honour I could do without.” Eddard crossed his arms, frowning mightily, “I am Lord of Winterfell, and my place is here in the North,”

Catelyn bit back the urge to chastise him. Offered the position as the second most powerful man in all the realm? Why wouldn’t he want it? But then again, Northmen were odd and not at all ambitious like those from the south. Northerners were handed their lot in life and satisfied with it. It made no sense to her.

“If you refuse,” Catelyn began hesitantly, “The King may take offence,”

Her husband sighed, “Indeed. He has also asked for Sansa's hand for his son Joffrey,”

Catelyn gasped, absolutely delighted. Her beautiful daughter, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? It was a mother’s dream. “Oh, how wonderful,”

Lord Stark did not look impressed, “I have spoken to Sansa, and she is reluctant,”

Catelyn’s joy turned to ash in her mouth, “Whatever for? She would be Queen,”

Lord Stark opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the knock. Catelyn frowned and said, “Enter!” and Maester Luwin stepped inside, the chain of his order ringing in the silent room, “Yes, Maester?”

“I can come back if I am interrupting,” Luwin said, frowning uncertainly.

“Not at all,” Catelyn said, ignoring Lord Stark's sharp look, “What is it?”

Luwin pulled a letter from one of the many hidden pockets in his grey robe sleeves and held it out, “A rider in the night. It is for you, my Lady,”

Catelyn swallowed thickly and stood, wrapping her heavy robe more tightly around herself. She accepted the letter and peered at the seal, “This is from the Eyrie, from Lysa. What is she doing back there?” she opened the letter, eyes roaming over the words swiftly, stomach dropping.

“What is it?” Eddard asked sternly.

Catelyn crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fire, “Lysa wrote the letter in a code we devised as children; she has fled the capitol with her son. She says that Jon Arryn was murdered,”

“She’s fresh widowed, Catelyn,” Eddard said, brows pinched as he watched the letter burn, “She doesn’t know what she’s saying,”

“If what Lady Lysa says then the King may be in danger,” Luwin said softly.

Eddard pulled a face, “Why now, after so long of peace? Why would the Lannisters begin a war now?”

“I know not, my lord, but as Hand of the King you would be in the best position to protect him,” Catelyn remarked quietly, wringing her hands.

“Indeed.” Luwin ran a hand over his beardless chin, “You and his Grace were foster brothers. He trusts you. Who else better to guard him?”

Eddard looked less than impressed, “I suppose. Very well, if I am to go south, I will take Sansa, Arya, and Bran. They might enjoy the adventure of it. Robb must remain, and Rickon is too young still,”

Catelyn's chest clenched. Sansa would enjoy the south; she had always loved the luxury that came with being a lady despite her recent bout of rebellion, and gods knew Arya needed refinement that being in the capitol could offer. Reluctantly, she let go of them in her heart. But not Bran. Never Bran. “Yes. But please, my lord, for any affection you hold for me, let Bran remain here in Winterfell. He is only a boy,”

“I was a boy when my father sent me to foster at the Eyrie,” Eddard said dismissively, “And he might find himself becoming a squire in short time. Ser Rodrick also tells me that there is bad feeling between Robb and Joffrey. That is not healthy. Bran could bridge that distance. Let him grow up with the princes, and be their friend,”

Catelyn pursed her lips, pained. She was to lose three of her five children and her husband in one fell swoop. She nodded, acquiescing though pained, “Keep him off the walls, then,” she said, voice tight, “You know how Bran loves to climb,”

“I will, my lady,” Eddard said, nodding.

Luwin asked, “What of Jon Snow, my Lord?”

Catelyn tensed at the mention of the name. Many men fathered bastards; she knew that. She had grown up with such knowledge. It had not surprised her that her lord husband had fathered a bastard on some girl while away at war, but the fact that he _flaunted_ the bastard, kept him in Winterfell around her trueborn children, vexed her. She knew not the bastard’s mother’s name, but had heard whispers of it being the beautiful, haunting Ashara Dayne of Starfall. It had taken her weeks to marshal her courage and ask, and that had been the first time Catelyn truly feared her husband.

“Never ask me about Jon,” he had said, icy cold, eyes blazing, “He is my blood, and that is all you need to know. And now I will know where you heard that name, my lady?” Catelyn had pledged to obey; she told him; and from that day on, the whispering had stopped, and Ashara Dayne's name was never uttered within Winterfell again.

Catelyn knew that whoever Jon’s mother was, Eddard must have loved her very much for nothing she said would persuade him to send the bastard away. It was the one thing that had stopped them from ever passing the dutiful stage of their marriage. She might have loved him, once, and not just fond of him, if he had sent the bastard away. She would have tolerated a dozen bastards if they never set foot in Winterfell. The fact that the boy looked more like Eddard than any of her trueborn sons she bore him made it all the worse.

“Jon must go,” she said now, voice as hard and cold and unyielding as ice.

Eddard stared at her fiercely, eyes blazing, “Jon may remain if he wishes to. Winterfell is his home and I will not throw my son out of it,”

“He is not my son,” Catelyn said stiffly.

“How can you be so damnably cruel, my lady?” Eddard demanded coldly, and Catelyn forced herself not to flinch, “Jon is a boy of seven and ten. He will remain. He will assist Robb with running the castle and Ser Rodrick in training the boys and men,”

Catelyn trembled with rage. But she had vowed to obey her lord husband no matter how badly she wished to refuse. She bowed her head, silent, only relaxing when Eddard and Luwin exited.

_I will lose three of my children,_ she thought, and let the tears come, _and he demands I continue housing the bastard. Damn him. Damn Eddard Stark!_

***

_THE NIMBLE WOLF_

_Winterfell, 298 AC_

With father, the king, and everyone else riding out to hunt at dawn for wild boar to feast upon that night, Bran took off for his favourite places to climb. So high above everyone, he felt as though he was king of the whole world. It made Winterfell Bran's secret place, made him invisible. It always made him laugh when the guards would spot him and begin to chastise him; but none of them could climb half as well as Bran, and he always vanished before they could catch him.

Bran kicked off his boots and began climbing. Going up barefoot was always better. It felt as though he had four hands rather than two. He lifted himself up easily, digging his fingers and toes into the crevices in the old, crumbling walls of The First Keep. The Keep had been empty all his life. Only crows and spiders and rats lived there now. Sometimes he stuffed his pockets full of corn and fed the crows and rats. He didn’t like the spiders.

Bran hauled himself up, crawling up the side of the drum tower easily. He had done it dozens of times before. He remembered once mother had caught him and asked Luwin to make a boy of clay to show Bran what’d happen if he ever fell. The clay boy dressed in Bran’s clothes had shattered against the ground. Bran hadn’t been impressed. He’d said, “I’m not made of clay. And anyhow, I never fall,”

Mother had been incensed at his blithe answer and made him pray for penitence. He hated praying. He much preferred climbing.

Bran had reached the top now, and he crawled along the lip of the top of the Tower, dodging gargoyles and smiling at the crows that eyed him and begged for corn. He hadn’t brought any, he’d forgotten in his excitement.

“I don’t like it,” a woman said. Below him was a row of windows, and the voice had come from the one closest to Bran. “My father should be hand,”

“Uncle Tywin would be a better choice than _Stark_ ,” a man replied lazily.

“Don’t you see the danger this puts us in?” the woman asked, “Robert, the fat fool, loves the man like a brother,”

“Robert despises his brothers. Not that I blame him, Stannis is enough to give anyone indigestion.”

“Don’t play the fool, I taught you better. Stannis and Renly are one thing, Eddard Stark is quite another. Robert will _listen_ to Stark. Damn them both; I should have insisted on Father being appointed, but I was sure Stark would refuse.”

The man scoffed, “We ought to count ourselves fortunate, Cersei. The king might as easily have named one of his brothers or, gods forbid, Littlefinger. Give me an honourable fool for an enemy rather than an ambitious one. I’ll sleep more easily by night,”

“We will have to watch him carefully,” the woman – _Cersei, the Queen,_ Bran realised, but who was the man? – said.

“I’d sooner watch you. Get back here.” The man sounded annoyed now.

“Lord Eddard has never taken any interest in anything that happened south of the Neck,” the Queen said forcefully, “Never. I tell you; he means to move against us. Why else would he leave the seat of his power?”

“A hundred reasons, Cersei,” the annoyed man said, “You know Stark is an honourable, dutiful fool. You saw how little love there is between he and his wife. Catelyn was his brothers betrothed. He fulfilled his duty by marrying her despite how head over heels he was for Ashara Dayne,”

The Queen remained quiet for several moments before saying, quietly, “I thought I got rid of the foolishness in you, Lancel. Dear cousin, you disappoint me. Its the quiet ones you must watch for,”

Bran shifted, too curious for his own good, and peered inside the window. He blinked, shocked. Two people were, what did Theon call it? Oh, right, _fucking,_ on a spread-out cloak. The Queen he recognised and, yes, that was the skinny blonde Lannister guard that had been following the Queen around. Had she called him _cousin_?

Bran withdrew, but his hand slipped, and he involuntarily let out a squeak. Biting his lip, he scrambled up beside the window as fast as he could.

“What was that?” he heard the Queen demand.

“Probably a rat,” Lancel said, sounding really annoyed now, “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of rats,”

“Check, Lancel. Now.”

Bran hurriedly tried to find purchase so he could climb up the Keep faster, but it was too late. A hand grabbed him, and he cried out loudly as he was wrenched down onto the window's ledge. 

Amused emerald eyes met his, and Bran stared, stunned, at Lancel Lannister as he asked, "What are you doing?" 

"He saw us!" The Queen screeched, clutching a tunic to her nude chest, "He must have," 

"Well," Lancel said, affecting a put-upon air, "We can't have that," 

Bran screamed as Lancel pushed him, and he tumbled down into open air. 

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. 

***

_To reiterate, even the Gods are not infallible and make mistakes._

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is the third WIP I have active, so updates are gonna be hella wonky :)


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